


Compass

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Series: Pyxis [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Desert, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 09:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17846696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: He thinks it's the desert that does it.(Or; Sam and Dean get very, very lost. And on their way they maybe find something, too.)





	Compass

**Author's Note:**

> i spent so much time on this. what has become of me. 
> 
> this takes place in some vague, non specified time. i was picturing season 2 before Dean's deal but whatever floats your boat, honestly.

 

He thinks it's the desert that does it. The sweltering heat, blinding light flickering off the hood of the car, miles and miles of square nothing as far as the eye can see- it's enough to drive a man crazy, with nothing to keep him lucid. And with someone in the shotgun seat, well, that's just someone to go insane with.

Dean thinks he should mind less. By mostly worldly standards, he's already reserved himself a seat in the nearest loony bin. _I hunt monsters,_ yeah. Try explaining _that_ to your local police agents.

So he shouldn't mind, really. But he does.

Sam doesn't notice any of this, of course. ‘Cause Sam's got his head stuck in a book, pouring over words like the price is about to hit the roof in ten seconds flat, no attention whatsoever to the whizzing road, life passing them by. Nothing new.

Dean turns the music up, twist the knob until _Kashmir_ is blasting loud enough they'll be getting an earful the next state over. Sam winces, pressing the heel of his palm to one ear, barely sparing a second to shoot Dean a heated glare.

“For fuck's sake, Dean!” he yells, stashing his book away where good music can’t hurt it.

Dean just grins. “Oh, what was that? Can't hear you!” Then he grins, relishing in Sam's glower, another bit of heat on top of the already broiling air.

Yeah, it's gotta be the desert.

.

Ghouls are a fucking pain to kill. Undead, sure, decrepit half corpses at best, but they steal your shit and have something of a brain on occasion, and worse, they wear human skin.

“She was just out for a little while,” Annie Mclaughlin says over a waterfall of tears, snotty tissues disappearing into the folds of her hand knitted sweater. “She was supposed to come in for- for dinner. We were going to have mac ‘n cheese!” She says before sobbing uncontrollably, words dissolving into incoherent fractions.

Dean cuts his eyes to Sam and sees his brother leaning forwards, fake FBI badge glimmering in the warped heat. “Miss,” he says calmly, “We understand this must be an awful experience for you.” The woman nods, eyes swollen red. “But if you help us, we might be able to find her before it’s too late.” _Before the ghoul takes your little girl’s skin and wears it as dress-up,_ Dean thinks. And it’s a good thing he doesn’t say it, because Sam’s working his magic, convincing her to pull words together. “Now, is there anything you could tell us? Anything at all?”

“You- you’ll think me crazy.” She says, and Sam gives her one of his witness-and-women winning smiles. “Miss, we promise we’ll listen.” She relaxes just a bit, the tension in her shoulders coming undone. She slows her nose blowing, swallows, and then starts talking.

“Nina...she was playing outside...and there, this man- but he wasn’t a _man-_ he had these _eyes_ , dark- black- like a hyena, p-practically. And I- I just turned to check on the mac ‘n cheese…. And she was gone. Oh my god,” the woman pulled another tissue. “I let her die!” She wailed. “I should’ve never…”

“Ma’am, it’s alright. We’re going to find her.” Sometimes Dean wonders how Sam got so good at lying. He always remembers Sam saying the wrong things at the wrong times when they were younger, too honest for the life.

The woman nods and sniffles, saying something about how she has to make lunch. They take that as their cue to leave.

“Ghoul,” Sam says once they’re out the door, and Dean nods. “Folklore says they often take the shape of the person they last killed, inhabit their body til they rot. Known to tempt travelers, and like kids. Desert dwellers, sometimes they look like hyenas. Matches every check.”

“Now all we gotta do is kill it.” Dean says,'cause he knows Sam'll jump on that.

“Yeah.” Sam says, and Dean smiles inwardly as his brother slams the car door shut, before holding back a wince. “Not much on that.” Dean resists the urge to wince further. “Only source I could find says decapitation works pretty well.”

“When in doubt, dismemberment or pyromania.” Dean says, and Sam gives a slight nod, though his eyes are off in the distance. That means he's thinking. About what, Dean has no idea.

“You wanna go to a bar?” He says after a bout of silence, followed by _Master of Puppets._ Sam's quiet. Dean leans over to elbow him. “C'mon, Sammy, relax a little.”

“Sam.” Is all his brother says in response, catching him by the elbow and shoving him. “And I don't know if you've noticed, but we _do_ have a case to solve.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun.” he says, eyeing the volume knob. Sam catches his look and grabs him by the wrist. Cutting his eyes to his Sam, Dean catches the look on his brother’s face. That look preceded many a sparring match, alongside arguments and the occasional attempted chick flick moment. Either way, it is Bad News.

“How many times have I told you; getting laid does not improve your job performance, no matter how much you tell yourself it does.”

“Oh, Sammy. If only you knew.” Dean grinned at his little brother, recalling Sam smashing his face into a pillow as Dean explained to his fifteen year old brother the wonders of sex.

“I really don’t want to.” His brother says, gaze to the window. Dean can’t see his expression; his tone’s enough, but God knows what Sam’s thinking.

“Are you-”

“Very.” Sam’s voice could cut glass.

Dean knows when not to push it. “Alright then, Thelma.”

Sam glares. “The FBI search hasn’t gotten that precise yet, has it?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Who knows, Sam. Maybe I’m just filling out the bucket list, y’know. Kill a fucker, kiss you, drive off a cliff. Not a bad way to go out.”

He means it as a joke, but Sam’s expression goes unreadable after that, and when Dean starts talking again, Sam just mumbles something about being tired and leans against the seat, which of course means he ends up leaning against Dean. Dean doesn't protest.

They drive in silence after that. Dean counts his heartbeats, and when he gets bored counts Sam’s.

.

The hotel is pirate themed. Dean didn’t know they _had_ pirate themed hotels. And this place is far enough from the coast it’s possible the owner never even saw a boat, never mind a pirate. Actually, scratch that. Based on the decor, Dean’s pretty sure the guy’s never seen the _sea._

Sam groans at the clock on the wall, which marks the hour with a mechanical ‘Ar, me matey!’ and a swing of its hook shaped pendulum. He then proceeds to collapse on the bed and shove his face into the pillow.

Dean sits on the edge of the other bed, toying absentmindedly with the old fashioned phone dial until eventually stumbling across the number of the town’s sole pizza place, which delivers for an extra fee of ten dollars and is about forty minutes away. Dean tells them to make it half hawaiian and half pepperoni.

Sam looks like the dead, though not dead enough to miss nabbing the first shower, a fact which he proves in the fraction of a second after Dean’s announcement of pizza. Dean sighs and flips through the TV stations, eventually settling on the local baseball game, the static cackling and the screen occasionally going out.

The pizza is cold and has the approximate consistency of cardboard. They devour it anyways. Sam doesn’t look at him the entire time, keeps glancing up and away and pulling out a book, flipping back and forth through it, never long enough to actually read a page. Dean gives him a curious look. Sometimes Sam gets like this, jumpy as all hell for no reason, and hell if Dean knows what’s got him on edge this time.

“Dean-” He starts in on, to say _This is weird_ or _We need more silver bullets_ or maybe _Did you know ghouls were first introduced to Western mythology by Antoine Galland’s translation of the Arabian folktale ‘One Thousand and One Nights?’,_ Dean doesn't know, but Sam stops as soon as he looks up, closes his mouth and bites the inside of his cheek.

They finish the pizza. Dean tosses the greasy box on top of the garbage bin and grabs at the remote.

“You tired?” He asks offhandedly, casting a quick glance. Sam looks like he’s thinking, as always. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's eyes, a hint of a smile on his face. His brother blinks, jolting and then nodding.

“Yeah,” he says distantly, looking right past Dean to the creepy pirate doll watching them from a crooked shelf. Dean shivers, and turns the TV up.

A handful of minutes later and his brother’s out like a light. The TV buzzes with faint, far off noise. The window is wide open, letting in the desert air (that’s something people on the coasts never realize; it’s cold in the desert, in the night, as much as it is boiling in the day). Dim stars glimmer off in the distance, sand endless in every direction. The pirate’s boat balcony almost looks like a refuge, in the middle of all that dryness.

The thing about the desert (the thing city people never realize) is that you can drive for days and never see a person. You’ll run into gas stations, sure, and cacti and tumbleweeds, and if you might chance a ghost town if you’re a particularly unlucky type, but people are like water here. Hard to find, unless you know where to look. Sam would talk about dowsing for water, or something like that, and talents and psychic powers, but the truth is that if you’re lucky you’re lucky and if you’re fucked you’re fucked. Somethings you can’t choose. Somethings you can’t control, you just have to adapt and deal the best you can.

Sam never really did grasp that, Dean thinks. But he supposes he doesn’t really mind. Staring out over the incessant shallows dunes of sand, the desert seems all too easy to get lost in, without something to ground you.

.  


They forgot water. They're in the desert and they forgot water.

“Fuck.” Dean says, and Sam looks like he agrees.

“We could drive back”, he offers, but they won't. It's hours away from the nearest town and the more time they waste the more likely it is that girl's dead.

Dean pops the trunk open and grabs some weaponry; two guns and three knives. He tosses one of each to Sam, who catches it with ease. Sam eyes it, shucks the gun into the holster affixed to his belt, looks over the blade to Dean. He keeps doing that; staring off, like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something.

“Hey,” Dean says, watches Sam’s expression shift. “We going?” He says, and Sam nods.

The heat is sweltering; why they thought to come to the desert smack in the middle of summer he completely forgets. He must have been drunk or out of his mind or both.

“So, this girl- Nina- she left the house around last night, right? Ghouls usually have hideouts of sorts, caves or crevices where they stay, suck the soul outta you until they can possess your corpse. Any idea where this one might be?”

Sam pauses, purses his lips. His gaze tapers off in a diagonal. Then he points. “That way. They can only get so far; we’ll have to search a circumference.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, watching his brother shrug off his coat and tie it around his waist. “Any chance said circumference lines up with a conveniently placed backroad?”

If Sam is surprised Dean knows the meaning of ‘circumference’, he doesn’t show it. He looks almost happy, actually, a smile touching the edge of his lips, almost to his eyes. “Only partially.” He says, and Dean resists the urge to collapse on the scorching asphalt.  

“Fucking hell, Sam.” He says, pulling open the car’s door and sliding into the driver’s seat. “Just for once, I’d like a monster to take up a comfortable residence at the Marriott, and after killing it we could take a damn martini and enjoy the pool.”

Sam sighs, lending him a smile that makes Dean’s fingers twitch over the steering wheel. “If you wanted luxury you should’ve gone into business, Dean. There’s no special reward for every hundredth werewolf skin or vampire tooth, in this vocation.”

His grin is bright, joking, and it makes Dean want to drive faster. He keeps having dreams like that, Sam at his side, _Drive faster,_ a hand over his knee, his brother grinning like Dean's got the whole of the world in his hand. Dean keeps waking up with his hand over the wheel, foot to the gas, heart thrumming in his chest.

Keeps thinking, _I can’t keep doing this,_ but it’s always, _that's your cross to carry._

He wonders if Sam mourns it, not living out that life of luxury, not taking his shot at escape and running with it, as far and as fast as he could in the opposite direction. Sometimes Dean thinks he should've gone further, that if Sam really never wanted him in his life he would've left the country. California wasn't a final declaration, because Dean was bound to end up there eventually.

He wants to ask, sometimes, if Sam regrets it. But he doesn't. He already knows the answer, and he doesn’t want to hear it.

.

The road winds around endlessly. Dean drives. Sam peers out the window, as intense as an ornithologist in a tropical rainforest. Dean keeps thinking that his brother is ghoul spotting, and keeps having to keep himself from laughing. It’s only partially working.

Sam turns, quick as all hell, scowling. “What the hell is so damned _funny?_ ”

Dean smirks. “We’re ghoul spotting,Sam. _Ghoul spotting._ ”

Sam sighs. “You don’t need to tell _me_ the ridiculousness of the situation, Dean. I’m thinking it’d be better to set up camp around one of the residences- wait for it hit the next victim.”

“So give up on the girl, is what you’re saying.”

“Dean- you know as well as me that that girl is long gone by now.”

Dean gnaws at his lip, keeps his look fixedly out the windshield. Sam keeps talking. “I don’t like it either, Dean. But we couldn’t have done anything. She was probably already dead by the time we got here. Four days- a kid like that? Probably gone by day two.”

The cacti are particularly fascinating. “Probably.”

“Dean- you can’t blame yourself for everything. People die. And sometimes we don't get to them in time.”

Dean thinks, _watch me,_ takes in a deep breath, says “We can try.”

He doesn't look to Sam’s expression, but he hears Sam’s muttered “Goddammit Dean.” He thinks, _you have to stop doing this to me,_ keeps driving, and ignores Sam’s looks.

.

They drive until they end up in a diner, formica counters and fluorescent lights that occasionally flicker out for a few seconds, decrepit booths and, as Sam later vocalizes, a complete lack of salads.

“I’ll have a hamburger, thanks.” The waitress has a pen behind her ear and takes his order in clipped notes.

“Same, I guess.” Sam says disheartedly, giving up. Dean kind of wants to laugh.

The waitress leaves. Dean tilts his head at Sam. “So….” He says, and waits for Sam to do the rest.

His prediction doesn’t fail. “....So we got another lead.” Sam finishes his sentence, pulling out a pen of his own and scrawling on a napkin in the absence of any other paper. “Sarah Smith. Single mother, like Anna. Has a child- small girl, like Anna. Lives on the edge of town. Last year she called the police, telling them her daughter had seen a strange man around the property. Cops come in, can’t find anything, tell her to keep an eye out.”

“So it’s a yearly thing.”

“Seems so, yeah.”

“You think the ghoul’ll come back for old prey?”

“There’s not many single mothers of young girls in this town, Dean.”

He doesn't like how little the pattern lines up. There’s no motive; no real reason for the ghoul to like little girls with stressed out mothers. But if there’s one thing he knows it’s this, that monsters aren’t humans. They don’t need a reason.

Dean looks up at Sam, and wonders if what differentiates them is that humans _do._

His brother draws something of a graph, napkin tearing with quick pen strokes.

“We could stake the place out, for the afternoon. Anna said the man came at night, around dinner. So we should be there by then.”

“We should follow it back to its hideout, see if there’s anyone else we can save.”

Sam looks at Dean. The line of his lips is harsh, but his eyes are soft. “Dean.” He says, voice low.

Dean looks out the window. The sky’s dark and harsh, gleaming with stars. “I know, Sam.” He says.

“We only have one shot.” Sam goes on. “Otherwise they come back. So… don’t miss.”

Dean sighs. “Fucking djinns.” Sam doesn’t correct him, which Dean takes to mean his brother is no more excited about the prospect than he is.  

The silence is excruciating, because Dean can’t think of anything to say and Sam won’t look at him. Their waiter drops the food off and leaves.

The window is open, letting in cold night air and, the starry sky crystal clear in the background.

“You still remember those constellations?” he asks, after a few minutes of painful silence, the question unexpectedly dragging itself out of him. Sam looks at him like he’s become a different person mid hamburger.

But Dean remembers when Sam knew every constellation by heart, all the positions of the stars and the myths to line up with them. They used to sit on the hood of the Impala, sipping fizzy soda as Dean watched his little brother map out the universe.

But that was a long time ago. Maybe Sam forgot.

Sam pauses, looks out to the stars. He puts down his burger, raises a hand to the window. Points to an alignment of stars, faintly glimmering in the periphery of dusty curtains.

“Circinus,” He says, green eyes glittering. “It means you’re lost.”

 

.

Stakeouts always involve enough junk food and fizzy drinks to kill a small dog, and occasionally bandages, for when they get so pissed at each other it ends with bleeding. It’s not a frequent occurrence, but they keep a handful in the glove compartment anyways.

Parked a good few feet away from the Smith household, they hopefully pass for dumb college kids ready for a drink. The house is homely and lit up, curtains tugged closed. No one’s left since sundown.

“You bored yet?” Dean says.

“Not quite.” Sam says, and Dean doesn't like that look on his face, the one that always precedes prank wars, the one that means Sam’s gotten an idea that rivals any and all mythological discoveries. The one that means Dean’s fucked.

“Shit.” He says, and goes immediately to the cassettes. No Mormon church music, and the Zeppelin is perfectly safe, thank god. He looks up. No cleverly place beverage ready to scald his face off. His ass isn’t stuck to the seat with glue, so that’s a plus.

He regards Sam carefully out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t bother to ask, he knows he won’t get an answer. “Ghoul, Sam.”

Sam smiles, the real smile, the one that makes Dean knock over the cup of coffee he’d put on the dashboard.

“Fuck,” he says, barely catching it before it splashes all over his jeans. He glares at Sam, too hot paper cup burning his fingers. “That was you, wasn’t it?” Because it’s gotta be, somehow.

Sam just smiles. “Fuck you,” Dean says, and Sam flips him off.

Another few hours pass, and Dean doesn’t find any surprises, but Sam’s still smiling. Dean wonders if he got something wrong.

.

Sleep’s seeming like a really good idea when Sam grabs him by the wrist and jolts him back into the world of the living.

“Top left corner of the windshield. Near the cactus.” Is all he says. Then, “Three. Two. On-”

Dean knows what to do. He busts the door open, aims his gun and fires. There’s a scream, high pitched and as piercing as the gunshot. “Sam, did we-”

Sam's eyes are wide and his jaw drops as he fires. “Sam, what-”

It’s all silent. That’s another thing about the desert; it’s quiet. Eerie.

“He dead?” Dean asks. His brother looks like he’s swallowing knives, before he gulps and says, “Only one way to find out.”

Dean walks up. The shot’s a hundred yards, maybe. Shoulda been easy, even with this type of dark.

He walks up. There’s a mound of black dust where the ghoul once was, and enough ectoplasm to fill a small bathtub.

He hears Sam’s footsteps behind him before he looks down.

Splashes of red on a dark blue vest, peeked open to reveal a bubblegum pink Barbie shirt.

Dean blinks.

Sam’s hand on his shoulder hits him like a truck. “Dean-”

Dean yanks his brother’s hand off his shoulder, turns his wrist so his hand’s palm up, and slams his gun into Sam’s hand. The metal makes an audible _thunk_ on bone and flesh. 

Sam must look like a fish. “Dean-”

“Shut up, Sam.” He says, and his brother does.

.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, thinking, _the desert is dark_ and _the desert is cold_ and _you killed a nine year old._

Because Dean knows there’s only one reason Sam would’ve shot, and it’s because Dean missed. It had to be that. There’s no other reason.

All he knows is that the cold has seeped into his bones by the time Sam steps up to his side, clears his throat and says, “We should probably bury the body.” Dean would hate him if it wasn’t true.

Sam goes back to get the shovels, and Dean keeps walking, out onto those infinite reaches of sand. The constellations stare down at him, and Dean keeps hearing Sam’s words, thinks, _are you lost._

They bury the body in silence, far enough out that the house is nothing more than a speck on the horizon, engulfed by dust clouds and sand. Dean’s never believed in god, but in his mind he says a prayer. Sam says nothing, but Dean would bet he’s thinking the same.

They walk past the house on the way back. Dean wonders what Sarah Smith will think when her kid doesn’t come home, when that low lit cozy cabin is empty as the desert outside it.

He blinks. The sand crunches under his boots and digs into his feet like pinpricks. His eyes are damp, which doesn’t make any sense because this is the desert and they forgot water.

.

He tosses Sam the keys, and Sam’s got this look, different from a few hours before, the one that means a heart-to-heart is in order. “Dean-”

“Sam, just drive.” He’s too tired to say _please._

Sam bits his lip and clutches the dented car keys in his hands, giving him a long look. He swallows, muscles in his jaw working. “Okay.”

Dean pulls open the passengers door and stares ahead. He wants to drive, wants the feels of the wheel under his palms, something to distract him for the endless loop in his mind, something other than the oppressive silence and dim stars, but he doesn’t trust himself.

He killed something. Some _one._ Someone who wasn’t a murderer, wasn’t a killer, probably never did anything worse in her life than cheat on a test or steal an extra cookie. Someone he was supposed to protect. (He still remembers that, the first day Dad told him, _Dean, there are monsters, and we kill them, save people,_ pressed a cold gun into his hands, eyes dead serious.)

There was blood on her shirt. He shot a civilian.

He failed.

That’s all that goes through his mind on the drive back, dull streetlights that dot the highway flicking in and out of his vision with the words _you killed her_ and _you shot a civilian_ and _the desert is cold_ and _it mean you’re lost_ and _you failed._

His hands tremble when he opens the door. The motel sign has a handful of letters missing.

“We get in and out as quick as possible.” Sam says, as if Dean's not well enough to put two and two together, and maybe he's right. Dean nods.

They get into their room, packing up their bags with all the efficiency Dad taught them. Dean’s fingers slip when he’s putting away his razor and he gets blood on his sleeve. He throws away the razor alongside the shirt.

Sam appears in the door frame, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wringing his hands without even casting them a glance. Dean thinks he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it. No, his brother is too busy looking at every window like a fed’s just waiting to pop out of it, shoot them both dead in three seconds straight. And unlike Dean, not miss.

They walk out and no one stops them. The trunk slams harshly as they close it on the bags. Dean winces, but it’s dulled, a faint echo compared to the words running through his head.

He pretends to fall asleep as Sam navigates the highways, drives through streets and stop lights. He keeps closing his eyes and seeing that girl. He keeps seeing blood, keeps seeing bones jarred the wrong way and a shot fired too fast. He keeps wanting to run. He keeps looking to his side, fast glances. He keeps seeing Sam. His brother’s eyes are fire, hands white knuckled over the wheel, unblinking.

Dean doesn't sleep.

The sun’s coming up when Sam finally talks.

“Dean.” He says, grave and serious and Dean can already feel the headache coming on.

“Sam, I-”

“No.” Sam says, voice hard. “Let me talk.” His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, although there's nothing worth looking at.

Dean resigns himself. “Fine,” he says. “You want to talk, talk.” He waits for Sam to pull over and walk away, or better yet, kick him out, leave him without a brother or a car.

Sam doesn't pull over, but his voice is like walking on eggshells. “You’re my brother,” He starts with.

Dean looks at him, unimpressed. “Tell me more.” Sam gnaws at his lip.

“I just want you to- to know that. You’re my brother. And I’d do anything for you. So. Just. I know you think I’m gonna leave you. And… I’m. Not. So, stop.”

“Stop thinking I’m gonna leave you, Dean.”

The words feel unnatural, dragged out of his chest. He doesn't even think he wants to say them. It's just a reflex, like everything else he does. A reflexive fuck up.  “Oh, sorry, it’s not like you have a track record of it.” He doesn't sound angry. Just tired, because that's all he is.

Sam's expression remains unreadable. Dean thinks he should be mad. Dean doesn't know why his brother hasn't ditched him yet. He really should've.

The car comes a half foot away from veering off the road. “You fucking idiot,” Sam swears, eyes drifting dangerously far from the road, only one hand on the wheel. “I- I didn't leave _you,_ Dean. If I could've. Taken you with me, I would've.”

He remembers how Sam had paused when he left, just after Dean had pressed a wad of twenties into his hand and told him to call if there was anything he needed. He remembers that Sam had looked so close to saying something, and he supposes now it was _come with me._ A bit like how Dean had wanted to say _stay._

 _But I wasn't enough to make you stay,_ is what Dean thinks now. That, that had been it the whole time.

That's what he wants to say, but what comes out is, “Oh.” And then, “Pull over.” Because Sam’s paying so little attention to the road Dean’s concerned he’s gonna crash the car, and if his brother is leading up to some grand shot to abandon him on the side of the road he may as well just get it over with.

Sam doesn’t protest.

They’re still in the desert when they pull over. Dean comes around to push a hand on the Impala’s roof and sit atop it. Sam joins him a few moments later, dusty sand kicking up beneath their feet.

There’s more silence, and Dean is so, so sick of it. If Sam wants to yell at him, fine. Throw a punch at him, fine. But the silence is killing him.

Not as much as a heart to heart might, though. Fuck, maybe he should just invite Sam to take a swing at him.

“You there?” He asks Sam. His brother’s still looking at the clouds of dust below them, but Dean’s all eyes.

Sam hesitates. “I don’t know, Dean. I…” He turns, puts a hand on Dean’s knee. His eyes are brilliant, blazing with that same unreadable expression he's had since he was fifteen and angry all the time, the one Dean's never quite been able to figure out.

His knee is starting to hurt with how forcefully Sam’s fingers are digging at the sinews.

“You know I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen, right? You must’ve fi....” He stops at what Dean is sure his expression is.

It hits him like a shot, shrapnel and all. His eyes go wide and his jaw drops and he looks at Sam like, like-

He tries for words, tries to _think,_ but nothing comes. All he can think is he _never noticed._

“Are you-” _fucking with me-_

“-No.” And he didn’t think he was. Sam looks too honest, too vulnerable, for that. And if there’s one person in this world Dean knows, it’s his brother.

Or. Well. He _thought_ he knew.

“I. Well. Just thought you should know. Because-” He takes in a breath, seems to be putting himself together. “Well, ‘s like I said. I’m not leaving you.”

“I can’t believe you never…” And Dean can’t believe it either. How he managed to miss something this _big_ , how he didn’t see it. He always knew when Sam was in love, could easily see it on his face. It was obvious. At least, he thought it was.

How could he miss that?

 _Maybe he didn’t,_ he thinks with a start. Because the thing is, there _were_ a few times, when Dean had thought maybe, just maybe. Sam, holding his hand just a bit past the time when most kids would let go. Sam, fourteen and refusing to talk to him for two weeks for reasons he refused to name, blushing and stuttering like all hell when Dean asked him if he wanted pop tarts or lucky charms for breakfast. Sam, always lingering on him a bit longer than he maybe should've, hands hot on his skin when they were checking for injuries.

“Wow.” He says. “I'm an idiot.”

He thinks Sam might be smiling, the tiniest bit, but he doesn't know. He isn't looking. “This in, breaking news; the sun is hot.”

They don't talk for a while. The sun bakes into his clothes, and Dean takes to tapping out beats against the roof, hollow notes of Zeppelin ringing out over the car's scalding roof.

“I always thought you _knew,_ you just thought it was disgusting and didn't want to bring it up. I mean, I wouldn't blame you.” Sam wipes a hand over his forehead. He's sweating, and Dean wonders if it's entirely from the heat. “Can you say something?”

Dean keeps his eyes on the sand, keeps thinking, _are you lost._ Keeps thinking, _this is all I've got._ Because at the end of the day, that's it. There's Sam, the Impala and an open road and monsters to kill. Take any one of them out of the equation, and that's it.

“...Dean?” Sam says, voice trembling a bit, and Sam shouldn't ever sound like that. Shouldn't sound like he did when he was a kid, small and sad and _scared._ And he shouldn't sound like that because of Dean.

It's Dean's job to protect him, after all.

Dean turns, grabs his brother by the collar, and kisses him.

.

Sam pulls away, wipes his lips, and blinks. “You-”

“-I guess, yeah.” The words come out slurred together, _Iguessyeahsure,_ but Sam nods. Dean notices his hands are shaking as he does, but still his brother manages better than he does, pushes his white knuckles hands against the roof of the car and jumps, lands on the ground. He turns to Dean, obviously waiting.

The guilt in his chest is being slowly pushed out by his pounding heartbeat, and he wonders if that makes him an awful person. He doesn't have time to think, though, because Sam pops the door open, and gestures for him to do the same. He raises an eyebrow, and gets in through the same door, shoves his brother into the passenger seat. Sam sighs.

“Forever relegated to shotgun,” he says, and his voice sounds almost normal except that it’s kind of rough.

“Damn right,” Dean says, and watches the desert fluctuate in and out. The knots in his chest tighten and loosen as the tracks of sand fall into neutral territory.  

“Where’re we going next?” Dean says, and his grin feels false.

“Somewhere wet,” Sam says, his smile tinted with sadness. Dean hits the gas, and watches the desert fade out in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes
> 
> -Circinus is a faint constellation near Alpha Centauri, named by Abbé Nicolas Louis de Lacaille sometime during the 1700s. Its name translates to ‘The Compasses’. Frankly I doubt it actually means anything but whatever, story symbolism was required. 
> 
> -Ghouls were first introduce to Western mythology by Frenchman Antoine Galland’s translation of the Arabian myth collection One Thousand and One Nights. Traditionally, ghouls are known to haunt desert and cemeteries, and some sources say they shapeshift into hyenas. They're oftentimes known to like young children, drink blood and steal coins. Traditionally, they have to be killed with only one blow. 
> 
> A comment a day keeps the incessant pain at bay! lol no but really kudos comments & critiques are always appreciated. thanks for reading!


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